The fog appeared out of nowhere, as fog is sometimes wont to do. One moment we
were motoring along in brilliant sunshine, the next we’d slipped into a
murky parallel world of cotton wool. It was all-enveloping and
claustrophobic, and slightly unnerving.
A definite chill had seeped into the air. Swallowed up by the fog, the birds
had stopped singing. All we could hear was the rhythmic purr of our engine.
Visibility had fallen to no more than 20 metres. I could just make out the
lines of large trees slipping past on either side of the road. Beyond them
was a milky void, an eerie nothingness that could have been hiding anything:
thick forest, an undiscovered mountain range, even a herd of unicorns
grazing by a brook. It was impossible to tell.
Until, that is, the castle of Bjertorp Slott materialised from the miasma. It
was dark and brooding, vast and imposing, a wall of granite that seemed to
be gently perspiring in the mist. I stopped the car and Lorraine climbed out
of her seat. Her footsteps crunched on the gravel as she walked to a giant
wooden door that was studded with bolts. She tried to push it open. It was
locked.
Friends had looked at us askance when my wife and I said we were off to Sweden
for a gourmet tour. The only dish associated with Sweden was pickled
herrings, they said, and while these were tasty enough, they would get
awfully tedious after a while. Why didn’t we go on a foodie trip to France
or Italy, like normal people? Because we were better informed — Swedish
cuisine is by no means exclusively concerned with pickled herrings. One of
the regional tourist boards runs a programme called Vastsvensk Mersmak (A
Taste of West Sweden). It picks the restaurants and provides the maps. All
we had to do was turn up with an appetite. It had seemed like a very
reasonable arrangement to us. Until now.
Lorraine rang a bell on the wall and we waited. When the door eventually
opened, it should have creaked. It didn’t. A sliver of light appeared on the
gravel and gradually widened. Standing at the threshold was a blonde waif.
If I’d had to equate her with a meteorological phenomenon, she wouldn’t have
qualified as fog; she’d have just about made it as a fine mist.
Something about the look on her face told me she knew who we were, however.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “You’re just in time for tea.”
Inside, Bjertorp Slott continued in an unexpected vein, but without the fog.
The first thing that met us on the staircase was a large, stuffed brown
bear.
Following that, other taxidermic specimens started popping up everywhere we
looked. A wolf lay relaxing under the grand piano; a fox ran down a wall; a
moose head looked on dis- approvingly.
The castle, more like a mansion, really, was built in the early 20th century,
seemingly for a giant. It wasn’t just extra large, it was outsized. The
ceilings were so high, there was room for clouds. Our bedroom door was wide
enough to drive through. In a coach and horses. It was as if the plans had
been drawn up in feet, but the builders had thought they were in metres.
Almost. In fact, the scale was boosted deliberately. Apparently, the wife of
the original owner had thought the architect’s drawings looked too small.
We were ushered into an art-nouveau suite done out in marble the colour of
lichen. Palm trees stood in pots with swirls on. The place was so large and
verdant, it was probably where they shot the bear. Outside, the fog still
lingered. This was Agatha Christie in Scandinavia. If it’d been a game of
Cluedo, the murderer would have been the hotel’s creator, Knut Henrik
Littorin, in the smoking room, with a poisoned herring.
But we’d come to eat and that’s what we did. That night, we had quail done in
three ways (consommé, roast leg with lentils, and breast with parsnip purée)
and fillet of beef with a red-wine risotto and thyme sauce. Quite delicious
it was too.
West Sweden is roughly divided into three types of landscape. Our route to
Bjertorp Slott had taken us through flat agricultural land. As we drove
further west the following day, we slid through forests where red roadside
warning triangles framed the silhouette of an elk. Closer to the coast, fish
started to appear on the menu. At Thorskogs Slott — another castle, though
definitely of the fairy-tale variety, with turrets and its own duck pond —
we had halibut terrine and salmon smoked by the chef over alder wood. He
made a mean egg-nog, too.
Thorskogs was the last of the upmarket restaurants. Our itinerary comprised a
diverse selection of eateries, the rocky coastline offering down-to-earth
wooden cafes dotted among the islets of the Bohuslan archipelago. As you’d
expect from a country that pioneered social democracy, participants in
Vastsvensk Mersmak come in all shapes and sizes. The only requirement is a
reputation for good food. But the Swedish kitchen hasn’t always been a haven
of egalitarianism. Our next port of call was Handelsman Flink, a pretty set
of gabled cabins on a remote islet, where the chef told me that 20 to 30
years ago, the restaurant business had a very distinct pecking order. The
more senior a chef, the larger his hat. A waiter’s rank was clearly defined
by the number of braids on his shoulder.
This young man was modest and gentle and wore a neat little skull cap, perhaps
to distance himself from those hierarchical times. I asked him whether he
ever shouted in his kitchen. The guy nervously shook his head. I don’t think
he understood what I was driving at.
It’s not just the looks and location that draw Swedes to visit Handelsman
Flink. It’s also where Evert Taube, Swedish folk-singer extraordinaire, came
to dry out in the 1940s. Scandinavians have battled with the demon drink for
a century and more. Many of the older generation still feel a pang of guilt
whenever they fancy a tipple. Surrounded by fishermen who liked a glass of
something, Taube didn’t manage to sober up, but this is where he penned some
of his most famous songs. They played tapes of them in the little cafe while
we tucked into the warm lobster mousse.
Here, on a sparkling bay, the air was shot through with the tang of sea salt.
Else- where, the fresh air had a taste too. The taste of freedom, sunshine
and good health. Not unlike the food. We didn’t have a bad meal in West
Sweden.
Even the commonplace things were good. At Rada Sateri, a smart wooden pile
just outside Gothenburg, designed by Sir William Chambers, who also created
London’s Somerset House, they comfortably passed Lorraine’s potato test.
This is a mark of distinction of her own creation — or, at least, I think it
is. Potatoes in most restaurants don’t really taste of much. Sure, they can
be pepped up with cheese and butter and cream, but real potatoes, just out
of the ground, have a distinctive flavour all of their own. This we know
because during the summer we buy ours just up the road at the pick-your-own.
The guys at Medley Manor Farm won’t thank me for saying this, but the Rada
Sateri’s new potatoes were just as good.
It was simply local produce cooked to bring out the appropriate flavours. Like
the Swedes themselves, the food was unassuming and unpretentious. My
question about shouting in the kitchen had received the same perplexed
response from the head chef at the Hos Pelle restaurant in Gothenburg. He
looked as if he didn’t even know any swear words.
I’d asked to speak to him because we’d nearly died while eating his cabbage
soup. In a nice way, I mean. This was kale cooked in chicken stock — the
best cabbage soup we’d ever tasted. It had a velvet consistency and was
pea-green. It came with a deposit of apple purée at the bottom and a scallop
on an uncooked kale leaf for company. But it was still cabbage soup, the
food you serve to torture your children. It was heavenly.
None of the personnel we spoke to made a song and dance about anything much.
The chefs prefer to let their cooking speak for itself. They’re an emotional
lot, the Swedes. Which is probably why, as our friends had suggested, most
normal people take their foodie trips in France or Italy.
But what, you might be thinking, of those pickled herrings? I reserved a
special page for them in my notebook. We ate herrings in mustard sauce and
red-wine sauce, with dill and with crayfish and a hint of orange. And
marinated with onion and sour cream. They were delicious, and didn’t get
tedious at all.
Nick Middleton was a guest of Discover the World
Getting there: summer fares to Gothenburg include: SAS (0870
60 727 727, www.scandinavian.net), from Heathrow, from £151; Ryanair (0906
270 5656, 25p/min, www.ryanair.com), from Glasgow and Stansted, from £30;
City Airline (0870 220 6835, www.cityairline.com), from Birmingham and
Manchester, from £169. Gohop.ie (01 241 2389, www.gohop.ie) has fares from
Dublin via Heathrow; from €295.
Where to stay and eat: Bjertorp Slott, in Kvanum (00 46- 512
203 90, www.bjertorpslott.se), has main courses from £21, and double rooms
from £109. Thorskogs Slott, in Vasterlanda (520 66 10 00,
www.thorskogsslott.se), has two-course menus from £15; doubles from £86.
Handelsman Flink, in Flaton (304 550 51, www.handelsmanflink.se), has mains
from £9; doubles from £91. Rada Sateri, in Molnlycke (318 848 00,
www.radasateri.se), has mains from £20; note that it it is closed until
August. Hos Pelle, in Gothenburg (Djupeals- gatan 2, 311 210 31), has mains
from £12.
Getting around: Ebookers (0800 082 3000, www.ebookers.com)
has three days’ inclusive car hire from £112. Or try Budget (0870 153 9170,
www.budget.co.uk) or Europcar (0870 607 5000, www.europcar.co.uk).
Packages: Discover the World (01737 214255,
www.discover-the-world.co.uk) has a range of fly-drives, including one
around West Sweden that focuses on first-class food. Prices start at £653pp,
including flights from Heathrow to Gothenburg with SAS, a night half-board
at each of Bjertorp Slott, Thorskogs Slott and Handelsman Flink (with
three-course dinners at Thorskogs and Bjertorp), and a car. Regional
departures available on request. Or try Nortours (0870 744 7305,
www.nortours.co.uk), or Enjoy Sweden (0870 220 6831, www.enjoysweden.co.uk).
Further information: call the Swedish tourist office on 020
7108 6168, or visit www.vastsvenskmersmak.com or www.west-sweden.com.
